Dispatch Box
by sagredo
Summary: Things not intended for publication. The sometimes weird, sometimes unfinished, and otherwise imperfect pieces from my documents folder. Ch 23: The chapter I wish I'd have had the foresight to post as chapter 22. Or, the chapter which lives up to the above summary possibly better than any other.
1. Medical Applications of Lawn Tennis

It would have almost been humorous to see him looking at me with such an open expression of confusion, had I not already been so frustrated by his unwillingness to see to his own health.

"But this book indicates that if overtired one should _seek_ occupation, not avoid it," Holmes argued, holding out the volume to me. "Is this not a medical text?"

"It is," I allowed wearily, "but the passage to which you refer is on the prevention of hysteria in women, Holmes."

He fixed me with a look I was more accustomed to seeing turned on Scotland Yard officials. "An overtired woman is prone to hysteria, then?"

"In certain cases, yes," I replied cautiously, trying to determine whether he was sincere in his objections or being deliberately obtuse.

"And an overtired man is prone to nervous collapse?"

"Yes," I agreed again.

"And yet the woman is encouraged to find some occupation for herself while the man is constrained to take no more cases at present and eat when he does not wish to?" Holmes demanded, flinging the volume from him in a fit of pique.

I sighed, rising from my armchair slightly to retrieve the book from the hearthrug. "Have a care with my things, Holmes," I admonished.

"This is intolerable!" he complained, ignoring me. "Is there some symptom you have observed with me which renders this prescription of rest a special case rather than a general solution?"

"No," I returned levelly, "I have told you nothing I would not have told any man who had been using himself up so freely as you have."

"As I thought," snapped Holmes. "Yet the literature on the subject indicates that were I a woman you would be encouraging me to go outdoors and play lawn tennis!"

"I would not tell a woman who had not slept in three days to play lawn tennis," I replied tersely. "I might advise a woman overtaxed by the demands of her work to take up some enjoyable diversion or amusement -"

"Then why should the man be denied as much?" Holmes interjected sharply. "It is unjust."

"It is mere common sense -" I began to say, but he cut me off with a cry of:

"It is tyranny!"

I confess that for the most fleeting of instants I imagined this oration taking place from a soap box on the street corner and my friend engaged in passing out leaflets. I chose, however, to keep this to myself.

"Do you wish to go outside and play lawn tennis?" I snapped at him instead.

"You're missing the point," he replied tersely.

I could only shake my head at the irony.

_A/N: Inspired by an excerpt from a chapter on hysteria in one of Mrs. Pencil's entertaining old medical texts. _


	2. Flattery

Contrary to popular belief – which is the state the idea has risen to since being circulated amongst the popular press – I am not precisely the innocent that Watson's narratives make me out to be. Though shocking John 'Three Continents' Watson is, perhaps, beyond my scope, I am at least not so unworldly as to be unaware of when I am being...flirted with.

Unfortunately I am also relatively prone to flattery.

When it comes to my work or my intellect, my reaction to the praise of any person, male or female, comely or plain, exhibits little variation – I blush and stammer like a professional beauty complimented on her looks. I ape Watson's description here – but it is one of the few instances in which his prose was as accurate as it was picturesque. It does little good to prevaricate about it – my ego is perhaps my sole vulnerable point.

It does not often become problematic – most women seem to be paradoxically expert at indicating interest in another by talking about themselves, or failing that confine their efforts to subtle comments on one's eyes, or his hands, or some other equally irrelevant physical quality (what evolutionary pressure wrote into the instincts of human kind a tendency to choose a mate based on eye color, I am sure I will never know).

It is inescapably true, however, that the spectrum of temperaments and personality traits which the female of the species may inherit is as broad and varied as that available to the male, and – as it is only natural for large populations to form distributions of traits rather than breaking down into rigid categories – an exception to the rule is sometimes encountered.

This one was waiting on the platform at London Bridge station. She was a student of philosophy. She was working on Hume's problem of induction and had made a study of my methods.

I was helpless.

She was familiar with my monographs, for God's sake.

Under the onslaught of learned compliments I am afraid I felt a good deal of heat rise in my face and my responses to her praise were generally stammered. Interest alone in my methods as a philosophical structure would have been flattering – but praise! I almost did naively overlook her veiled comments on the difference between my actual appearance and the illustrations Watson's stories were published with. Unfortunately, all my blushing and stammering with regard to the former was probably taken as a favorable response to the latter.

I am aware that when this occurs some of the decorum I prefer to maintain between myself and the rest of society is lost. I begin to look somewhat approachable. Fortunately any attempt at approach on the lady's part was precluded by the departure of her train. Watson's presence, however, I was forced to suffer all the way to our destination.

He fixed me with a knowing smirk as soon as we were settled into our compartment. It was clear as day what he was thinking. I admit that I felt a momentary impulse to strike the grin from his face, irked by his hubris in making such an assumption, but chose instead to scowl at him. It would have been a meaningful scowl, I am sure, had the presence of a flush not still have been making itself faintly known across my cheekbones.

Watson said the worst thing about this he possibly could have. "You're adorable when you're flattered."

I did not reply, but crossed my arms and turned my gaze out the window sharply.

"You liked her," added Watson.

I considered asking "Who?" but instead snapped: "Not at all."

"Well," allowed Watson happily, "you liked that she liked you."

"I appreciated that she appreciated my work," I corrected tersely, pausing to pull my gloves irritably from my fingers with my teeth.

"She was your type," continued Watson. "She had red hair."

"She was blonde."

"I believe the term is strawberry blonde. And you noticed."

"I notice everything!" I flung my gloves onto the bench beside me vehemently. "And I do not have a _type_."

"Every man has. It's natural to find certain qualities more attractive than others."

My type, I considered, in that case had more to do with a string of seemingly unconnected victims, a paucity of clues, and cloudy motives than the color of a woman's hair. Watson saw me frowning over this and, waving a hand, said: "Oh, alright, it is natural to find certain qualities more _aesthetically appealing_ than others, if you like."

I turned the frown at him, half tempted to steeple my fingers and really scrutinize him for a moment. "You miss," I informed him with finality, "absolutely everything of importance."


	3. Choice

Mrs. Hudson, I was certain, was verifiably a saint. I told her as much as she took my rain-sodden scarf and coat and I climbed the seventeen steps towards our warm fire place and the tea and accompanying biscuits she had informed me were waiting, as quickly as my exhausted legs would allow.

They had just come out of the oven, she had stated. She had timed their preparation so as to have them waiting for me, hot and fresh, on my return. They were my favorite kind. I had spent an utterly beastly weekend at a medical seminar I had not wished to attend – though my sense of duty had bound me to as much, in this case – and her simple act of kindness had nearly trumped the weekend's worth of misery in my mind.

Then I reached the sitting room.

Sherlock Holmes looked up from his tea, chewed once, and swallowed.

A plate empty of anything but biscuit crumbs lay on the table before him.

I froze, my mood suddenly plummeting to the same depth it had reached when, upon arriving in London, I'd stepped off my train and into a downpour.

"Why, certainly, Holmes," I said tightly. "You may eat all of the biscuits."

Holmes' grey eyes had grown wide and almost childishly guilty. "I'm sorry -" he began, but I held up a hand to silence him.

"No, no – allow me the courtesy of at least pretending I had a choice in this matter."

Holmes glanced to one side, posture wilting slightly.


	4. John Watson Facts

_A/N: Before Chuck Norris facts, there were..._

"When the Ghazi's attacked John Watson, they cried and sued for damages."

I snorted behind my newspaper. "That is not what you overheard those women in the train station saying."

"It is. And there is more – how did they put it...John Watson was not shot in Afghanistan, the bullet was John Watson-ed."

"Really, Holmes!" I cried, though lowered the paper not at all to hide the slight flush I felt beginning creep over my features. "This is becoming somewhat gratuitous."

"No more gratuitous than your trite little fictions. I am only quoting what your readers have extrapolated from them."

"They can't have gotten such...such..."

"Ineffable twaddle?"

"Quite! From my writing. My relating of events was wholly factual – do not scoff, Holmes – if, I will allow, slightly romanticized. But hardly to the degree these absurd little sayings suggest!"

"You're blushing behind that paper."

"Go to blazes."

But my insufferable friend only began to grin evilly. "When John Watson returned to London the Queen named a street after him," he quoted. "But the name was later changed, because no one crosses John Watson and lives."

I sank a bit lower behind my paper.

"John Watson was actually killed in Afghanistan, but death has yet to work up the nerve to tell him so. When they operated on his shoulder to remove the jezail bullet, anesthesia was applied to the surgeons. Fibers of John Watson's mustache have been known to cure consumption. John Watson -"

"Well, what did they say about YOU, then?" I exclaimed, throwing my paper aside, quite unable to bear any more.

"Not a thing," Holmes shrugged.

I gave him a knowing look, cocking my head to one side incredulously, not believing him for an instant.

"I know!" he agreed strongly, pretending, no doubt, to misinterpret my reaction. "It's somewhat ironic, I agree. Anyways, I have yet to tell you the best one – The H in John H Watson stands for..."

Having had quite enough, I felt at this point that there was little to be done but quit the sitting room entirely.


	5. Sofa Fight

The case which we had just concluded had been, though an innocuous matter in the end, long and tiring – though not to the mind or spirit, certainly to the body. I confess that upon our return home I wanted nothing more than to fall upon the sofa and remain there, unmoving, possibly for the foreseeable future. I had removed my hat and boots and placed them by the coat rack while Holmes, as was his custom, preferred to allow his belongings to form a debris-trail behind him, strewn across the floor as he crossed the sitting room towards the hearth. I saw little use in taking him to task for this at the moment, and had hardly the energy, and so only staggered towards the sofa myself. Somehow, however, before I could collapse upon it, my companion managed to insinuate his lean frame between myself and my goal. He collapsed there himself, stretching out to his full length upon the cushions.

I was brought up short by this. I stood a moment, blinking down at him in exhausted, foot-sore stupor. He seemed not to notice, and only stretched with a luxuriating sigh, closing his eyes.

This was quite more than I could stand.

Rather roughly, I seized him by the ankles and flung his feet off onto the floor so I could sit down as well. He gave a surprised squawk, and sat up, blinking at me as I settled my self at the far end of the sofa, considering to myself that this was a rather generous compromise.

Holmes, however, seemed not to think so. I soon found his feet in my lap. With a growl of annoyance I shoved them back off onto the floor. He was quick to replace them, sitting up slightly again with a scowl of affront. I thought that it was possible a solution lay in shoving his feet onto the cushion beside me, confining him to only the two, instead. Holmes reacted in a worse manner to this, however, kicking me in the thigh uncaringly as he straightened his long legs out forcefully once again.

That, I felt, was the last straw – surely there now was nothing more to be done for the situation than to remove _all_ of Holmes from the sofa. Frustration providing a sudden burst of energy to my exhausted limbs, I leaned over and gave him a shove at the waist with as much strength as I could muster.

To my unrepentant satisfaction he fairly flew from the cushions, giving a startled gasp and falling onto the hearthrug with a _thunk_.

My next action was to stretch out across the length of the sofa myself, settling my stiff shoulder against the soft plush of the upholstery with a grateful sigh. Holmes, meanwhile, lay on the floor in a state of apparent confusion.

I suppose he might have remained there, as habit had shown him not to be averse to falling asleep curled up on the rug before the fire in the past, had I not acted upon the next impulse which struck me. For reasons at which I can only conjecture now, I removed the throw pillow from beneath my head, and threw it at him.

He sat up immediately, and flung it back at me. "What is the matter with you?" he demanded angrily.

I threw the pillow back at him and rejoined: "What is the matter with _you_?"

We answered each other volley for volley in this fashion several times, the pillow flying back and forth with ever more force between us, until at last he seemed to loose his temper and seized me by the collar. With a cry of my own I found myself suddenly cast onto the floorboards, and Holmes scrambling over me to re-stake his claim to the sofa. This would not do. I shoved him aside, making efforts to clamber back up myself, and soon we were struggling against each other, wrestling hand-to-hand over the space.

_A/N: Yeah, I don't even know, with this one..._


	6. Matilda Briggs

It was not unusual to have my breakfast interrupted by a commotion in the foyer downstairs. What was unusual was that said commotion should continue after Sherlock Holmes had come upstairs, cast his hat wantonly into the corner of the room nearest the coat rack and thrown himself into an armchair.

"What's happening?" I asked, a forkful of eggs halfway to my mouth.

Holmes kneaded one temple with his fingertips. "The train has jumped it's rails."

I was about to ask him to explain this enigmatic statement when the remainder of the commotion manifested itself in the form of Mycroft Holmes, looming in the doorway.

"Oh," I shrugged quietly, to no one but myself.

Mycroft acknowledged me with a nod, something of an apology ghosting across his expression before it hardened once again to the look of frustration he had worn previously, which he wasted little time in turning on his brother.

"Sherlock -" he began to remonstrate.

"You know my terms," the younger Holmes cut him off, waving a hand dismissively.

"Your terms are ridiculous," Mycroft sighed.

"That you presume to send me on this errand is ridiculous. My terms are well within your means."

"To the contrary, what you request is quite out of the question."

"That is really too bad, because unless it is fulfilled I am not going to Candahar for you."

Mycroft ground his teeth audibly. "Sherlock," he scolded.

"My terms have not altered in fifteen years," the younger man shrugged.

"That ought to give you an idea of how impossible they are to accomplish."

"Such things are accomplished by the government daily, Mycroft, as you well know. Do me this single courtesy, and I will be obliged to run whatever little foreign errands you may have to hand. Otherwise, I am afraid your problem in Candahar interests me not at all."

"Pardon me," I put in here.

Mycroft, in the midst of replying, snapped his jaw shut suddenly, and both Holmeses turned to stare at me as though I had suddenly materialized out of thin air.

"Erm," I interjected, wondering belatedly if it were any of my business at all, "what are his terms, exactly? If I may ask?"

Sherlock gestured pedantically to his brother, as though queuing him to explain.

"I cannot assassinate a british citizen given no other provocation than that she pushed you into the millpond when we were children!" the elder Holmes erupted accordingly.

"Ah, _pushed_ me into the millpond?" Sherlock repeated questioningly. "Pushed me _once_? She drug me bodily to the millpond and threw me in whenever I was in its vicinity. She made a hobby of it."

"Oh, she was hardly bigger than you were!" cried Mycroft, rolling his eyes.

"She was quite a bit stronger than she looked," said Sherlock archly.

"Doctor," Mycroft appealed, turning to me, "do tell him that such a request is absurd? He listens to you."

"Um," was all I could manage, given the unusual circumstances.

"There, do you see?" cried Sherlock. "_Watson_ sees the reason in it. Now, Mycroft, you have but to eliminate Matilda Briggs and I will begin packing presently."

"It does not fall within my purview to _eliminate_ people," Mycroft sniffed.

"Of course it does," was Sherlock's knowing reply.

_A/N: FYI – my word processor always wants to correct Mycroft to 'Microsoft' and Sherlock to 'Shellack.'_


	7. Bees

"Tell me where you grew up," I asked instead.

Holmes looked up at me questioningly. "Why? You could find that out in a public records office."

"I don't want the address," I said. "I want you to tell me about it."

He thought for a moment, then shrugged, apparently conceding the point. "I've told you that my people were country squires."

I nodded.

"I suppose the ancestral home, technically, would have been Huntington Hall near York. But, my family hasn't owned it since the sixteenth century. The lands which have remained in their possession are further north on the moors. There's a hunting lodge called Harewood House, about twelve miles north of Pickering. My father inherited it when his elder brother died."

"Before you were born?"

"No -" he hesitated for a moment, and then continued. "I was two years old, I think."

"Where did your family live prior to that?"

"Well -" the same strange pause, and then: "My father was a businessman, and travelled often. My mother was living with her relatives in Lyons when I was born. Mycroft was away at school."

Something oddly clipped and guarded had slipped into his tone.

"You spent the first two years or so of your life in France," I said, seeking to prevent, perhaps, the conversation dwelling needlessly on what must have been a complicated family dynamic by turning it to matters more innocuous.

"Yes," Holmes replied, somewhat more readily. "Though admittedly I remember little of it."

"Doubtless it explains your facility with the language now," I conjectured.

"In the entire household only my mother spoke English," he agreed. "I'm told my first words were _Maman_ and _abeille._ I doubt I had a decent grasp of English before the family had moved to Yorkshire."

"Abeille?" I wondered aloud, butchering the pronunciation.

"Bee," Holmes provided. "My grandmother's garden was full of them."

* * *

><p><em>AN: The above is an excerpt. It's what gets published when I write something that isn't any good except for one brief bit I find intriguing anyways._


	8. Hiatus Fragments

_A/N: One of the modest number of hiatus scribbles I produced back in December actually turned into something complete, and was published as the 33rd chapter of Theme and Variations. The rest of these, rough though they are, I supposed I would file away here, rather than deleting...Enjoy?_

* * *

><p><em>Holmes' Thoughts on his Travels:<em>

The feeling is consuming - always heading north, and always towards those citadels of and ice and snow, enormous, as defies the human capacity to imagine size - of drifting inexorably and ever deeper into a place you do not know, quite possibly never to be heard of again. Those great white teeth of ice, so pristine and blank, raking the sky, inspire a premonition. You can imagine yourself, in that blank, white space – so rarefied and empty – and you think, this is where you're going. You have retreated increasingly and increasingly into obscurity. That's what obscurity looks like – those mountains – and you're really going to be lost in it, after all. You have cut all ties with everything, and now you're going to that place, where there's nothing. It's no different when they are veiled with spindrift and cloud cover, jutting up as they do into those barren reaches of the atmosphere inaccessible to man, than when they glint white-hot on the horizon like the wreck of some fallen star. The mystery they represent is manifestly beyond your scope. The nearer you get, the more you risk being swallowed alive.

* * *

><p><em>A Storm in the Nangpa La Pass:<em>

It was pitch black inside the stone hut where he had taken refuge, but the darkness lacked the close, insulating feel of nights spent at lower elevations, as the air was thin and alive with the storm raging outside. Wind whistled through the chinks in the stones where it could, and clawed at the rat's nest of pine branches and debris that formed the roof, seeming to toy with the shelter as though capable at any moment of tearing it down and leaving the occupant to die of exposure.

Sleep was impossible. At times Holmes would almost drift into a doze, but would find himself alert moments later, his breathing having become strangely quick and shallow in the thin, icy air. Then he would lie as still as possible, loathe to disturb the narrow pocket of warmth held tenuously where he huddled in his bed roll, and school himself to take deeper, longer breaths, until the odd feeling of not-quite-lightheadedness left him again.

When he wasn't concerned with breathing, his attention would drift to the evidence of the storm. His mind would focus on it for a time with the feral intensity of one questioning his chances of survival. He would worry at the problem of what could be done if the weather failed to improve for a matter of days, as was sometimes known to happen, with little success until the wind and cold would begin to feel familiar again and, like white noise, fade into the background.

* * *

><p><em>The Scene in Watson's Consulting Room:<em>

He's been carrying around three years worth of words he's never said.

"I don't want to die," had been first, eons ago, that night before the fatal excursion to the falls. Hundreds, thousands, of apologies had followed and crowded his thoughts when, to his own shock, he had lived. After that, he could have filled books with his own unspoken sentiments, with his own name, with mere English conversation, when voicing any of those things might have given him away and meant his life.

Perhaps that is why he can say nothing which he planned to now.

Watson is gripping his coat sleeves, looking up at him with a naked, desperate expression that struggles between ardent hope and horrified disbelief.

He opens his mouth to say something, to offer any kind of explanation, but ends up gasping a sigh. He feels that he must drag words up from deep within his chest in order to speak.

"I'm sorry," he manages.

At last, the load grows a bit lighter.


	9. Valentine's Day

_Roses are red_, proclaimed the note.

_Violets are blue._

_Make me some tea._

With a despairing sigh, I crumpled the square of card stock in my hands, stuffed it into my dressing gown pocket, and padded downstairs.

I found Holmes in the sitting room, sunk in his armchair before the fire with a heap of newspapers discarded at his feet. He glanced up from the steepled fingers he had been scrutinizing as I entered, hopefulness or expectation flickering across his features for an instant only to be replaced by apparent disappointment at my lack of tea tray in the next.

"Holmes," I told him seriously, "I am going to overlook the impropriety of your slipping Valentine's Day poetry under my bedroom door on the basis that that was the _worst_ Valentine poem I have ever encountered."

"Will you make tea?" he enquired.

"For the hundredth time," I cried, "No!"

He slumped a bit lower in his armchair dejectedly. "Dash it all."

"Mrs. Hudson will be back in a few days," I lectured. "Your idea that I should assume some of her duties during her absence is absurd."

"But I am not allowed in the kitchen," he argued. "And you have your camp cooking skills to draw on."

"The former has hardly stopped you before," I rejoined, "and as for the latter, you're perfectly capable of boiling water and putting tea into it."

"Did you know," he continued pedantically, "that this holiday was originally founded to commemorate the bond between Saint Valentine of Terni and the friends who visited him in prison before he was martyred? It was never given any romantic connotation until the high middle ages."

"If you mean to indicate," I replied, crossing my arms, "that an exchange of friendly tokens need not be prohibited by the modern interpretation of Valentine's Day, then perhaps _you_ should make _me_ some tea."

Holmes' brows rose in mock surprise at this suggestion.

"Really, Watson," he chided. "I already wrote you a poem."


	10. Two Drabbles

"Try it yourself, Holmes!" Watson was fond of saying when I complained about the products of his literary endeavors. He was certain that I should see things his way if only I were to take up a pen and start scribbling. Naturally, once I eventually found myself constrained to accept his challenge, I set about demonstrating otherwise.

"A Tale of Subtle Mockery," he read from the page I'd passed him. He gave me that peculiar, flat-eyed, brows-drawn-down look he employed when I'd done something he couldn't believe.

"You don't like it?" I wondered, falling onto the sofa.

"It consists of one sentence which reads: 'The events of this case were inconsequential,'" he exclaimed.

"It's true," I pointed out. "And accurate."

He scowled. "Except for the part where you called it 'subtle.'"

* * *

><p>"Holmes, your papers have been migrating onto my desk again," I complained. "I hardly have space to work."<p>

My companion's reply, from his position sunk deep in his armchair beside the fire, was a noncommittal: "Hmm."

I heaved a sigh. "I suppose I could simply move," I said, closing my journal and rising. Patience, rather than force, was generally the way to win a battle of wills with Holmes.

But I was surprised to turn and find him gaping at me where he sat, wearing the most extraordinary expression of shock and woundedness. This was gone in an instant, replaced by a stony mask which he directed darkly at the fireplace, but I had seen it. I confess that I stood rooted to the spot for a moment, taken aback by his behavior, until it occurred to me what it was likely he had reacted to.

"I meant that I would move to the _settee_, Holmes," I laughed at him.

"Of course," he snapped, "what the deuce is that to me?"

But, the next morning, his things had been cleared away from my desk.

He had needed to re-read those articles, he said. For a case.

I smiled and thanked him anyways.


	11. Consulting Missing Item Locator

The worst of it was that we both knew that neither of us had to say a word. Watson had but to stand there with his cuffs undone and look at me imploringly. Naturally I would infer that his cufflinks were missing and he wished me to find them, more as a reflex than a deliberate action. And, probably, I would also be able to tell him where they were.

I could have.

For the first time in my life, this was making me feel somewhat awkward.

Watson appeared to detect this, sighing and giving me an exasperated look. "Holmes, I could spend twenty minutes trying to remember my steps and retrace them, or you can just tell me what they were," he said. "I'm sure it's all plain as day to you."

I shrugged evasively and looked away. "Hm. Well."

"Come now," goaded Watson, "yesterday you would have said that deducing where I left my cuff links would have been diversion enough to prevent your taking a second dose of cocaine, or some such."

"Then you should have lost them yesterday," I rejoined.

"You don't know where they are," he reasoned glumly.

"It's perfectly obvious where they are," I snapped, forgetting myself.

Watson brightened. "Where? Quickly – I have an appointment with a patient. I'll be late."

I shifted in my armchair and rubbed a hand over the back of my neck.

"_Holmes_," Watson complained. "Stop – playing coy, or whatever it is you're doing. Do you know where they are or not?"

"Can't you find them yourself?" I wondered. "What happened to you finding things for yourself?"

"If you know where they are, and would be willing to share that knowledge, the process of my finding them would be greatly expedited," Watson explained, with exaggerated slowness.

I scowled at him.

"What is the matter with you?" he exclaimed at length.

"I am not..." I waved a hand futilely, searching for words, "some kind of magical locator of your missing things."

Watson's eyes narrowed slightly. "Really? When things go missing, you tend to be able to locate them. Usually as if by magic."

"You could at least make an effort to locate them on your own. Perhaps, as you suggested, by retracing your steps."

"But you _know_ where my cuff links are!"

"I can't _help _knowing where they are!"

"Well?"

"Well – it's hardly my fault that it is, as you said, quite plain as day."

"I don't understand why you won't just tell me," Watson caviled.

"Because..." I grasped at, beginning to grow rather frustrated, "Look – do you understand that I am a professional?"

"You want me to pay you to tell me where my cuff links are?"

"No. I want you to find your own blasted cuff links."

"But you're sitting right here."

"You can't just demand that I look at your trouser hems or the mud on your boots and tell you where your things are when you lose them!"

"Why ever not? You demand I treat your injuries when you've been needlessly reckless."

"I do not. I do exactly the opposite. You've said yourself that I am nothing if not the most recalcitrant of patients."

"Dash it all – I've spent nearly twenty minutes arguing with you already. You _do _know where my cuff links are, don't you?"

I crossed my arms and frowned down at my knees. "Yes."

"Will you please tell me, so I don't keep my patient waiting?"

I sighed.

"The man could die while I go on standing here, Holmes."

"He could die of being hard of hearing? That auriscope creates a distinctive bulge in your medical bag."

"There, do you see? Just apply those methods of yours to being useful rather than sarcastic and I'll have my cuff links in no time."

"You may keep your pawky streak of humor to yourself, or I'll go and get your cuff links and put them somewhere you'll never find them again."

"For heaven's sake, just tell me where they are!"

"Once," I stated forcefully, holding up a finger for emphasis. "I will do this for you once. In all future instances of misplaced items you must look for them like a normal person."

"With normal friends," grumbled Watson.

"What normal friends – Thurston? Thurston, who -"

"Stop, Holmes – stop. We talked about this. I don't want to know all the things you can tell me about Thurston. After all the others, you're not ruining Thurston for me."

"What I'm trying to say is that present data indicates you may be seriously handicapped in the area of making normal friends. It's not the card I would play, in your position."

"For the last time, _where_ are my cuff links?"

I sighed, and steepled my fingers beneath my chin. "They'll be in an envelope when Mrs. Hudson brings up the post."

Watson, true to form, recoiled – properly taken aback. "They'll be – but how on earth can you know that?"

"Oh, hell!" I lamented, leaning forward where I sat to put my head in my hands, "do we have to do that as well? How do I know _anything_, Watson?"

"Are you sure they're not in my beareau drawer? I thought -"

"You could go look for them, and then you would know," I taunted sharply.

Watson's expression of astonishment darkened. "Alright," he declared truculently, "you have, of course, employed the same logical methods of analysis as ever."

I nodded, sitting back in my chair to listen to him.

"You know that I lunched at my club yesterday."

"As you often do when your medical rounds leave you closer to that locale around noon."

"And you know that I played billiards."

"Which, unless sick folk have taken to tipping their physicians, explains the extra five pound note you returned home with."

"And as the weather was warm yesterday, it is a reasonable assumption that I removed my cuff links to roll up my sleeves."

"Ah."

"Clearly, I left them behind following the game. Naturally, some chap or other came across them, recognized the monogram as mine, and as my club has my address, had them sent on to me. There. Done. That's the secret you were withholding from me, is it not?"

"No."

Watson recoiled a second time. "_No_?"

"No. It is not. You returned home late last night without your cufflinks and your sleeves in a truly horrible state."

"Mrs. Radcliffe delivered her child slightly early. My sleeves and the late hour were small sacrifices to make for the health of mother and son."

"How charming. You were not wearing your cufflinks when you arrived here. If you truly had misplaced them following a round of billiards at your club, you would have taken note of their absence when you rolled up your sleeves a second time to assist with the birth, and would hardly have needed infer the fact from a suggestion about their arrival by post."

A gratifying look of realization dawned on Watson's features at this.

"Additionally," I continued, "When I took your coat from you that evening – you were exhausted, if you recall - I couldn't help but note that you had no coins in your pockets. There was the aberrant five pound note, but I know your fees, and this would not have accounted for the expense of your call to the Radcliffes. In their joy and relief at the healthy delivery of their son in spite of the challenging birth, and your fatigue, they neglected to pay you and you left without rectifying the fact. As the couple is possessed of no small means, and were undoubtedly embarrassed to discover their oversight, they will of course be sending your fees on to you this morning. Your missing cuff links will be in the envelope."

Watson's expression bordered on gaping in wonder now. "Why – but that's marvelous! It is simplicity in itself when you explain it. That I failed to connect those facts myself – I really did leave my cuff links behind at the Radcliffes'."

I stared hard at him for a moment, gazing down my nose and over my steepled fingers disparagingly. He stared back, his expression of delight and admiration flagging before long.

"Of course you didn't leave them behind at the Radcliffes'!" I cried when said admiration and delight had been exchanged for doubt. "They're in your beareau drawer!"

Instantly, the doubt sublimated into outrage.

"But I wasn't wearing them when I returned last night – precisely as you said!"

"You had put them into your trouser pocket."

"But the missing payment?"

"Did you short-change the cabbie that drove you home? Of course you had no coins. And as for the rest, do you imagine I also counted the bills in your pocket book?"

Watson was displaying all his usual hallmarks of anger, now – mustache bristling, eyes glittering, complexion slightly flushed. "You're an absolute scoundrel," he accused. "Such a trick at my expense was unworthy of you, Holmes."

"To the contrary," I replied, "if I am an absolute scoundrel, then it was perfectly worthy of me. You can have one or the other."

He shook his head at me, scowling, but quickly turned away to pace around the hearthrug, crying "I can't believe my cuff links have been in that drawer all along!".

"Exactly as you thought," I pointed out sharply. "Perhaps in the future you can be bothered to follow up on your own suspicions."

"Wait a moment – how can you have known that I had put my cuff links into my trouser pocket?"

"I observed that the post of one had stabbed through the wool."

Watson winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And when I went up to bed and changed into a nightshirt I folded the trousers and placed them in the drawer."

"Precisely."

"Well, I was wrong about one thing. You really aren't much of a magical locator of missing items. I could have found my cuff links at least twice in the time it took you to perpetrate that farce."

"And let it be a lesson to you," I grumbled.


	12. Morals

Oh, _damn_.

It occurs to me after a moment that I have given voice to this sentiment, though not, unfortunately, in the form of words. I have managed a pitiful sort of half groan, half sigh.

Which has, incidentally, woken Watson.

He starts in the chair he has pulled up to my bedside, looking at me first with surprise, then with relief, and then with concern as the doctoring protocols graven into his brain matter take over. He fusses over pulse and bandages and, for God's sake, the pillows I am propped up on before seating himself beside me once again and looking at me sternly.

"What did we learn?" he says.

Damn, I think again.

It's the 'guess the moral of the story' game. I hate this game. Mostly because it is not a game to Watson, and at my best I am never very good at it. As things stand currently I've woken up with bandages around my head, and I expect my best efforts will amount to even less than usual. Nonetheless, I try. I try very hard.

"Ammonium nitrate..." I conjecture after a moment. I am shocked at first by the hoarseness of my voice, but this seems of small import to Watson and he is shaking his head before I can say anything further.

"No, Holmes," he grumbles.

Oh. Blast.

"Never offer an unsolicited comment on a lady's hat...?" I posit.

Watson gives me a searching look as though attempting to detect if I am serious. For some reason I become chagrinned that I am.

"Check if the gun is loaded," I grasp at finally.

"_No_, Holmes."

I despair, and slump against my pillows.

"When a case necessitates that you act alone," Watson elucidates at length, "_tell someone _where you are going, and _when_ to expect you back." He watches me carefully for a moment, as though assessing whether or not this point has sunk in. I stare back at him and wonder how I might be meant to look if it had.

"Oh," I say at last, hoping this is sufficient.

Watson shakes his head again, but it's in a fond way.

It occurs to me that perhaps it didn't matter that my answers had all been wrong.


	13. Seeing and Observing

I am the first to admit my shortcomings as a fellow lodger. But to suggest that Watson possesses no idiosyncrasies of his own is to deny the facts.

In the first place, he is what one might call _meticulous_. Which befits a soldier and a medical man, but nonetheless, when taken to an extreme – which is to say, when taken out on me, or his environment – this becomes trying.

There was the matter of the sitting room, for instance.

In the initial days of our acquaintance, equivalently the beginning of our tenure at Baker Street, each of us had devoted some hours to unpacking his things and arranging them throughout the rooms to his satisfaction. The sitting room eventually contained what seemed to be an equitable distribution of those belongings which each of us should like to have to hand of an evening, or whenever we might find ourselves sharing the common space in the flat. I was ecstatic to have a place for my deal topped table and chemical apparatti which was both well lit and well ventilated, and Watson had filled the remaining space along the walls with his book shelf and his desk in an arrangement I assumed was agreeable to him. Thus I considered us 'moved in.'

Unfortunately, as I was shortly to discover, Watson had other ideas.

Relocating my burgeoning practice to Marylbone and the subsequent broadening of my clientele had created something of a boom in cases in those days, and while this was entirely agreeable to me, it meant that I was in and out of the flat several times in a day, and on some days did not return from morning until night. Watson, recuperating as he was from his experiences in the Afghan campaign, hardly went out with such frequency. It was on the former sort of days that it became most apparent how he chose to fill the hours.

For weeks, every time I came and went, I could be sure to find the location of every small, seemingly inconsequential item in the sitting room subtly altered on my return. _Every_ time. It didn't matter how often I went out and came back. Watson, it appeared, would invariably take it into his head that the arrangement of his belongings in the sitting room was not quite right during my absence, and would institute some entirely new scheme of organization while I was out.

He re-ordered his books constantly. There was a small button fern that migrated in random patterns from his desk to the side table to the mantle to his book shelf and back again. He bought a second fern, and this oscillated about as well. He bought a third. A frond of one died and he threw it out. He toyed with the arrangement of the drapes and the pillows on the sofa. He re-organized the papers on his desk countless times, constantly shifting the heights and locations of the stacks. The place he left his keys and watch, where he kept his tobacco, and the order of the pipes on the rack were all subject to continual revision. He seemed almost to re-arrange the pictures on the walls as a compulsion. Out of desperation, I finally took to pinning our correspondence to the mantle with a jack knife, so that one thing in the room might remain constant.

I would hardly deny that I am not what would be called 'tidy' in many of my personal habits. In point of fact, my flat is rarely neat. But I _do_ know where everything is. Always. Whether I like to, or not. Just as I know how many steps there are from the sitting room to the landing in 221, or how many tins Mrs. Hudson keeps in the pantry or how many buttons Inspector Lestrade has on any one of his overcoats. Most people see things. I _observe_ them. I cannot help this.

Thus, especially given the caseload I had taken on, I eventually began to find the constant re-arrangement of the sitting room and the sheer volume of extraneous data this created relatively exhausting.

The final straw came with the replacement of the discarded button fern.

It had been three weeks, and I had taken no fewer than three cases at a time since moving in. I was, as Watson would have said, using myself up a bit freely. I had no patience for returning home, expecting to rest, only to have my mind jarr itself back into action as it found necessity to re-write its map of the sitting room the moment I walked in. I scrubbed a hand over my face and groaned.

Watson, sunk in the armchair he had staked out as his own and reading an issue of the Lancet, straightened up to look back over his shoulder and asked: "Holmes?"

I sighed. "It's that damned fern. Can't you choose another sort of plant, if you must have them about? Do you know how minute the details are by which one might differentiate between a pair of ferns, much less _three_? _I _do."

I was, as I've said, rather tired.

Watson's brow furrowed with concern. "Are you quite alright?"

"And your books," I went on. "Alphabetical by title yesterday, descending order of publication date earlier this afternoon, by height before that, and now arranged apparently at random – except that if we discard the second hand volumes from our sample the patterns of wear make it obvious that you've organized them in order to afford easy access to those which you haven't finished or wish to read again."

Watson laid the Lancet aside and twisted round to regard me more directly. "Holmes. What are you talking about?"

Well, that was a fair question, I considered. One which I hadn't, up to that point, actually thought through. I marshaled the last of my energies and attempted to answer cogently. "When you," I began, "move things about the house, I notice."

Watson looked blank.

"_Anything_," I continued, trying to explain. "Everything, in fact. And I remember all of it. A picture of all of it gets filed away up here," I tapped a forefinger against my skull by way of illustration. "Unfortunately, just now there are _a lot _of other things going on up here."

Watson had cocked his head to one side and was scrutinizing me with narrowed eyes, half way between incredulity and fascination.

"Do you mean to say -" he wondered, then checked himself, waving a hand. "Suppose – well. You could tell me where I'd placed all the ferns yesterday, for instance?"

I finally removed my hat, raking a hand through my hair tiredly. "I could draw you a map of everywhere every blasted fern in the house has been since the day you bought them."

Watson's brows rose a fraction.

"What I wish to ask..." I composed, turning my hat about by the brim in my hands. "Could we just settle on _one_ arrangement of the items in the sitting room? Not that it must be rigidly maintained, but the constant re-shuffling -"

"Certainly," Watson surprised me by interjecting. "My apologies. I had no idea that it was bothering you."

"Well -" I floundered, thrown for a moment. Then, with a rigid nod: "Thank you." I then strode off to my room and went directly to bed.

Naturally, items have migrated about the sitting room since then. But, fortunately, the era of the subtle, yet comprehensive and insidious rearrangements seems to have run its course.

Now if only Watson could be persuaded to be a little more scientific with his writing.


	14. Disguise

Every disguise is an autobiography. The cap has been bought, as has the corduroy jacket, but the boots, too heavy and worn to be a gentleman's, are his own, and have been treading London streets since long before many in the city would have known his name. He removes them like the shedding of a weight.

For some moments, the rangy, sharp-eyed youth standing in his room is a familiar stranger, and he doesn't know whether the stray glimpse he catches in the mirror portrays his real self, or merely who he used to be. Then the rough clothing has been exchanged for his black frock coat, his face and hands have been washed, a pomaded comb has tamed his dark hair, and the ghost has disappeared.

Nearly. He examines his reflection in the mirror. He moves to straighten the grey silk cravat, and his split and scabbed knuckles jar with the rest of the image. They stand out - relics of his other life, out of place in this one, hinting at another sphere in which he is at home. The question arises again, unavoidable.

Is a disguise defined by that which it conceals, or only that it does?

_A/N: Have been wrestling a bit with this one. Not entirely sure what it is – a slightly different take on Holmes' origins, perhaps. _


	15. A Study in Wavelengths Around 650 nm

One fruitless argument over whether or not a certain reaction was liable to result in a precipitate of haemoglobin later, I was sat outside of a cafe near Imperial College and even more friendless than I had been that morning.

My doubts over the validity of the experiment being conducted by Stamford's colleague had offended the man – infuriated him, actually – and by extension I had seriously offended Stamford.

I stared down into my rapidly cooling cup of tea – which, given the state of my finances, I'd really had no business purchasing – and tried for a moment to think my way out of my current circumstances.

After a moment I gave up, concluding that it was preferable to simply put them out of my mind for the time being.

I reached for my tea, determined, at least, to enjoy that before it was cold. But, no sooner had I brought the cup to my lips than a voice declared: "You're going to want to throw that out."

I jumped, and, what was worse, gasped – aspirating half a mouthful of tea and spluttering the other half across the table cloth. I was indisposed for a moment with the ensuing coughing fit, and scrabbled for the napkin, dabbing first at my streaming eyes and then the table cloth before attending to the remaining tea that had made its way into my mustache.

Now I was feeling perfectly ridiculous. And, truth be told, somewhat persecuted. It seemed as though some malevolent force had made it its mission to ensure that I should be thwarted in every endeavor that day – even in something as basic to my quality of life as having tea. When I looked up to see the stranger who had spoken, I was already angry with him.

"Why?" I demanded sharply.

"Because it's not done," he said offhandedly, shrugging lanky shoulders. "Not for a man of your profession. You won't convince anyone. Forthwith it would be best to dispense with the tea and order coffee."

"A man of _my profession?_" I repeated, nettled and incredulous. "And what would you know about that, sir? Are you a doctor?"

"Yes," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. "Of something."

"But not of medicine."

"No. But neither are you."

"I am afraid you are quite mistaken," I snapped, and almost rose to go, but was stymied by the stranger throwing himself down in the chair across from mine and planting his elbows on the table.

"Not at all. You were once a medical man, perhaps, but have not been able to return to active practice owing to your health, and thus have recently found yourself a new vocation."

I slumped where I sat, heaving a weary sigh. "If you're some kind of fortune teller I am not going to pay you."

"I am not."

"I'll say. You're getting almost everything wrong."

"Ah. So you think. But in fact I have not made one false statement. Which of course indicates that you must be operating from some faulty premises."

"What faulty premises?" I grumbled.

"I can't pretend to know them all," the stranger sniffed, reaching into his pocket and producing a silver cigarette case, "but at the moment, chiefly that you have not just been hired by the Department of Natural Sciences at Imperial College."

I recoiled slightly, stunned. "What?"

"Don't thank me," the stranger replied, waving a long, slim hand. "I couldn't have put up with the fellow I would have been working with otherwise. I was doing myself a favor."

"_You_ did this!" I exclaimed, leaping to my feet now. "How? You had no right – I -"

The stranger paused in lighting a cigarette, looking at me as though appalled by my reaction. "Relax, Doctor Watson. You needed employment. Now you have found some. You ought to be happy."

"Happy?" I crowed. "But, you said, I am to be working with _you_."

"You've only just met me," he began to defend himself strongly.

"Yes, and you are not a medical doctor," I interjected. "Thus I can only conclude that I have just been employed under very false pretenses in some field in which I may have no knowledge or experience."

"To your first point – yes, but that couldn't be helped – and to your second, yes, but no one does."

"What?" I cried a second time. "No one has any knowledge or experience – but how can that be?"

"Because I invented your profession," said the stranger, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

I gaped at him. I didn't know whether hitting him or tearing out my hair would be a more appropriate reaction. "You. _Invented_. My profession."

"Yes. You're probably the only one in the world."

"What is it, then?"

"You," the stranger replied with a flick of his cigarette, "are a biophysicist. If you can understand what that is."

All my anger over the egregious breach this person had visited upon my affairs solidified at once into a heavy, cold, kind of disbelief. "You are a moron," I told him, with more seriousness than I had probably ever uttered a statement in my life.

"See?" he smiled. "You're perfect for the job. You're doing splendidly already. But, no, actually I am not a moron. For one thing I know almost everything about you."

"You're an acquaintance of Stamford's. He must have told you."

"Actually, Mr. Stamford and I do not associate. I overheard you telling his somewhat misguided colleague off as I passed the chemical laboratory this morning."

"You eavesdropped on our conversation?"

"Not for more than the instant it took me to walk out of earshot. That's not what told me about your health, or your finances, or your army service or any of those, though – just your name. And that you ought to be a scientist."

"Please leave me alone," I could not help but groan at this.

The stranger looked disappointed. "You don't care to know how I arrived at any of those conclusions?"

I slumped forward to prop my own elbows on the table, and buried my face in my hands tiredly. "Actually, at the moment, I only care to drink my tea. Alone."

"That is most unwise."

"Don't you think you've meddled enough, sir? I will reserve judgment on the wisdom of my own decisions."

"But if I go, you'll _remain_ alone. And so will I. You're entirely friendless -"

I snorted. "I can't imagine that you boast many of those yourself."

The stranger bristled, but went on. "Unusual circumstances for a war veteran, perhaps, but not I -"

"Doubtless."

"I am not interested in _friends_," he rose acidly to my bait at last. "I find myself at present with a paucity of worthwhile colleagues. It's dashed inconvenient, but one does not do physics in a vacuum. Particularly not my kind of physics. I require the expertise of a medical man, or I must resign myself to hours of study outside my field."

"What is your kind of physics, then?"

"Chemical physics," he said. "Most accurately, I am a theoretical physical chemist."

"I haven't even the faintest what that _means_."

"Never mind, hardly anyone does. Let us say that I do mathematics."

"Not chemistry?"

"Chemistry _is_ maths."

"Some might disagree with that."

"Only chemists. They're all idiots. Stamp collectors. You know."

"But I don't," I insisted a final time.

"You will," the stranger insisted in return. "It's very easy to pick up. All you need do is learn to drop the right names and laugh at the appropriate jokes. You'll blend right in."

"I don't think so," I reiterated.

"Look," my companion sighed, "you're also a gambling man, are you not? Make a wager with me."

"What wager?"

"Are you _really_ not the least bit curious as to how I know any of this?" he cried in disbelief.

"I don't give a damn," I lied, out of sheer bloody mindedness.

"Fine," he huffed, his unusually pale grey eyes darting to observe the other patrons seated around us at the cafe. "Pick an individual from amongst this crowd. Anyone. I will tell you everything I can about them, and If I'm wrong in any particular, I will leave you alone and inform my department chair that his new hire fell through."

"And if you're right?"

"You work with me for a week. At the end of which, you're free to go or stay, as you please."

I stared hard at him with narrowed eyes, considering this.

"You'd lose nothing by it," he pointed out.

I stared a bit longer, for good measure. "Fine," I said at last, and took to shrewdly examining the persons seated at the other tables myself. I did not believe in the man's trick of extracting information from thin air any more than I believed his assertions concerning my 'new profession', and meant to teach the infernal busybody a lesson. At last, looking over his shoulder, I spied a postman coming down the opposite side of the street, and hit upon a plan.

I pretended to take a moment longer in selecting a subject for our game. "From which persons may I choose, again?" I asked innocently.

"Anyone in our immediate vicinity," replied the stranger casually, ducking his head to light another cigarette.

"Anyone?"

"Anyone at all."

As he looked up, the postman paused to retrieve the mail from a box half-concealed behind a hedgerow. The timing of this could not have been more fortuitous. Grinning, I opened my mouth to tell my companion whom I had chosen, but before I could get a word out, he exhaled irritably in a stream of smoke and said:

"You're going to say the postman because you think he's out of my line of sight, but I can tell you that he has three children, one an infant and the other below the age of two, smokes Ship's, is an invalided sergeant of the marines, is a catholic, had kippers and toast for breakfast, is left handed and resides in Bermondsey. Now call him over."

I confess that my mouth hung open, though briefly, so rapid was the delivery of this statement. I gaped only an instant longer while the stranger regarded me with cool grey eyes before doing as he said.

The interview which followed was short and awkward, and I need only recount to the reader that we two had succeeded in seriously unnerving a postman by the end. That and it had become clear that I'd indentured myself to my companion for a week.

As the postman hurried away, the stranger stood, smirking evilly around his cigarette. "The fact that you chose someone whom you thought I couldn't see indicates that you have some grasp of how the method works already," he allowed, reaching into the breast of his coat. "But you really shouldn't try to fool me, Watson. Not yet. You can't play the game like that until you're good at it." He drew out his card, and laid it on the table with a snap. "Come round at noon tomorrow," he decreed, and strode away.

"What intolerable cheek," I grumbled to myself, glaring at it.

* * *

><p>The next day saw me wandering about the physics building at Imperial College in a state of bewilderment. I was less than enthusiastic about making good on my end of the wager, but, having determined to acquit myself like a gentleman, had gone round to the only address indicated on the meddling stranger's card at noon, as prescribed. This was an office on an upper floor of the building, purporting via a plaque on the door to belong to one Dr. Sherlock Holmes. I was relieved to see that this at least matched the name on the card – but was frustrated when, after knocking several times, I had received no answer. There was a bit of frosted glass forming a slim window beside the door, but this afforded me no more view of the of the room than would allow me to determine that no lamp was lit inside. I sighed, and with little else to do pocketed the card and turned away, thinking that as this Holmes chap hadn't indicated that I was to meet him anywhere else, he must at least be some place within the building.<p>

Ten minutes useless perambulating past lecture halls and laboratories later, I still had not found him, and had finally attracted the notice of one of the building's rightful occupants.

He was a lean fellow of middling height, fair complexioned, his flax colored hair slicked back from a high forehead with pomade and a pince nez perched on his nose.

"I beg your pardon," he said, hurrying up to me as I found myself vacillating once again at a juncture of hallways, "but this is the second time I've passed by you. Are you looking for something?"

"For someone," I admitted, producing the card from my pocket. "I was to meet Dr. Holmes at noon."

It was disconcerting to see the knowing look that spread across the man's features at this. "Ah," he said.

"I tried his office," I volunteered, "but -"

"Well, of course he wasn't in his office," the man interjected.

"Does he have a lecture this hour?"

"No. It's his office hour."

"But then -"

"That is why you'll be likely to find him anywhere but his office." He sighed, with an air of long suffering. "The space of states occupied by the system that is Sherlock Holmes forms not a scalar, but a vector field, I'm afraid. Unless you observe him, he has some probability of being almost anywhere you could think of – except, unfortunately, wherever he is supposed to be."

I found this pronouncement, to my dismay, to be perfect greek. I could only nod in a manner which I hoped was convincing and say: "Oh."

It did not become clear that my acquaintance had been making a joke until his put upon mien was exchanged for a grin. He chuckled, extending his hand. "My name is Morely, by the way."

"John Watson," I returned.

"Oh! Then you'll be our newest employee."

"Only to do research," I insisted, and hoped I was correct, "I won't be teaching."

"But how have you met Holmes already?" Morely wondered, nodding towards the card in my hand.

"I had the pleasure of running into him at a cafe yesterday afternoon," I ground out.

Morely's eyes narrowed shrewdly behind the lenses of his pince nez. "Did he play that trick of his? Tell you everything about yourself the instant he laid eyes on you?"

"Yes," I confirmed, surprised to hear that anything of the sort had occurred more than once. "Do you know how he does that?"

"No," said Morely grimly. "But if you can work it out, maybe we can stop him."

It was then that we were interrupted by a cry of: "Halloa!"

_A/N: A thousand points to anyone who knows what was wrong with Morely's 'space of states' joke. Seriously, I'll write you a request or something. Second place goes to anyone who can identify the Kelvin quote. BTW - Please note that Holmes' attitudes towards other branches of science do not necessarily reflect those of the author._


	16. Very Murky Depths

"Now," said Mrs. Hudson, pausing for an instant to secure her muffler as she hastened from the sitting room, "I'll see you gentlemen again within a fortnight. Doctor Watson is in charge until I return."

"What!" I cried.

Watson, seated in an armchair beside the fire, rustled his newspaper with what seemed to me an air of superiority.

Mrs. Hudson spun back around to look at me, as though surprised anything was the matter.

"Since when am I no longer in charge, simply because you're going?" I demanded.

For a moment, the silence in the sitting room was deafening. Watson glanced up from behind his newspaper with a quizical expression.

Then he and Mrs. Hudson conspired to shock me utterly by descending suddenly into peals of laughter.

I could do nothing during this interval but stand dumbly on the hearthrug and endeavor to keep an expression of confusion off my face, as I could divine no explanation for it.

At length Mrs. Hudson, wiping her eyes daintily with one gloved hand, made so bold as to pat me on the arm with the other, and said: "Just see that you don't set fire to anything about the house while I'm gone, Mr. Holmes." I started slightly at the gesture, and couldn't help my brow furrowing in frustration now. However, I was to receive no further clues as to the reason for my companions' strange behavior, as Mrs. Hudson then strode for the door and said nothing more before departing.

Watson had retreated behind his newspaper again, and was still chuckling.

"What?" I demanded of him.

"Hm?" he replied, falsely innocent.

"I do not set fires with any kind of frequency," I insisted, on a hunch.

"Ha," said Watson.

At this point I could see no better course of action than to throw up my hands and abandon my present line of inquiry. It was leading me only into murkier and murkier depths.


	17. No Particular Preferences

"You're not going out again?" I wondered, tea pot poised to pour a second cup.

Holmes, shrugging into his overcoat, tossed over his shoulder: "I am."

"But Mrs. Hudson's just brought up tea."

He glanced back at me, wearing his _that is obvious_ expression.

I added: "And she's been baking all morning for your birthday."

Holmes sighed. His shoulders drooped. Finally he threw the gloves he'd just collected down onto the side table and strode over to where I sat beside the hearth.

"_Madeleines_?" he wondered, scrutinizing one of the plates on the tray.

"_Et macarons," _I agreed, aping his accent, though his scoff told me I had done so abysmally.

He looked dubious, but reached for one of the dainty pastries nonetheless. "Why does she always prepare french food for my birthday?"

I shrugged. "She tries to make things you'll like. Or at least eat."

"I don't have any particular preferences," he insisted, but having finished the first madeleine, took a second.

"What you have concerning food might more rightly be called a pathological aversion," I accused blandly, "a less dedicated observer might assume you didn't like anything. I suppose this is Mrs. Hudson's best guess." And a good guess it was, I thought, as a third madeleine disappeared, and he moved to perch tentatively on the edge of the sofa.

"You would like tea after all?" I asked.

Defiant to the last, he did not remove his coat. "A quick cup."

I poured him one, hiding a smirk behind my mustache.


	18. Chess

Holmes was still staring at the chess board, disgruntled.

"That's beginning to verge on insulting," I warned him.

He shook his head. "I just – don't understand."

"Shall I explain the moves to you?"

"Of course not – they're all right here before me. I just – can't fathom how you managed to -"

"Win?"

He looked up at me, lips pressing into a thin line.

"My dear Holmes," I explained, "I have found myself compelled to manipulate you into eating, resting, and generally looking after your health in spite of your best efforts to have your own way, on an almost daily basis, for the past six years." His brows climbed steadily towards his hairline as I spoke. " And you're shocked when I manage to outfox you at a game of chess?"

I scoffed, shaking my head.

I had never seen Sherlock Holmes more taken aback in my life.


	19. Memento Mori

"Do you think we should get our portrait made?" asked Holmes.

I laid my newspaper aside to regard him quizically across the breakfast table. "Why?"

"Because we're going to die." He waved a hand at the startled expression this provoked from me. "Not _immediately_, perhaps. But one day."

I shook my head. "I don't follow you."

"Well – would you get a portrait made with my corpse?"

"To be honest...I hadn't considered it," I replied, no less disconcerted by the way the conversation was progressing.

"That's precisely what I mean. Being aware of the inevitability of our deaths, wouldn't it be practical to sit for a portrait while we're both living, and have the eventuality taken care of?"

"We can have a portrait made if you like," I frowned, at a loss.

"I only bring it up so we can avoid the possibility of any lolling heads or glazed eyes in whatever images might grace the mantle in the future."

"That would probably bother Mrs. Hudson," I allowed.

"So you agree?"

"Yes?" I shrugged.

"Capital."

_A/N: I cannot be the only one who finds those Victorian 'Memento Mori' photos creepy. Why did they not just take family portraits before people died? Honestly..._


	20. Eiderdown

The loan of the blanket was a well meant gesture, to be sure, and it was true that the cold, damp december weather did no favors for my shoulder – but it was also true that I encountered enough nocturnal reminders of my time in afghanistan and the sub continent without the withering temperatures induced by Mrs. Hudson's massive eiderdown comforter for help. I spent a week tossing and turning beneath the fluffy cloud of downy torment in my bed, loath to give my dear landlady offense, before I was forced to acknowledge that my significantly shortened temper and the violet smudges continually darkening my eyes were probably making my state of affairs perfectly apparent to her, whether I meant it to be, or not. At last, at the end of a week, having drained to the dregs my resolve to put up with the borrowed blanket as well as my reserve of patience for Mrs. Hudson's knowing glances, I brought the very thoughtful and entirely cursed comforter down to the sitting room and threw it upon the sofa. I was sick of roasting rather than sleeping. Mrs. Hudson, I am sure, was sick of feeling guilty owing to the mounting evidence of my roasting rather than sleeping. I had concluded that there was nothing to be done but bundle the over-stuffed eiderdown away, someplace out of sight, and speak no more of it.

I found Holmes pacing and smoking before the fire, clearly deep in thought, and looking if anything as though he had slept even less in recent days than I. I had no patience to worry for him at the moment, however, and therefore only inquired tersely: "I suppose you haven't asked for breakfast, then?"

He managed to convey that he had not, that it was stupid of me to have asked, and still more stupid of me to have broken in upon his thoughts with such a question, with one eviscerating, grey-steel glance. It was clear he had no patience for me, either.

221, Baker Street, being a row house converted into separate apartments, had no bell pull in those days, so I thought it prudent to leave Holmes to his irritable pacing and smoking for at least as long as it took to go downstairs and speak to Mrs. Hudson. Holmes generally surmounted any difficulties in communication by shouting down the stairs rather than descending them, a thought which at the time made me all the more annoyed with him, so I informed him of my intentions to see about breakfast myself, rather than leaving him alone as he clearly wished. He acknowledged me not at all this time, but sank down on the sofa beside the crumpled eiderdown, pitching the end of his cigarette into the grate murderously.

I found Mrs. Hudson, saint that she was, already in the kitchen in spite of having received no requests for breakfast, and felt my discontentment abate.

"Good morning, Doctor," she said, with a cheerfulness that seemed remarkable when compared to Holmes' attitude, or my own, of that morning. "Did you need something?"

I paused in the doorway. "Actually, I had come to ask for breakfast," I admitted.

Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly. "It's a rare occasion that Mr. Holmes gives any thought to food before lunch time. But you tend to rise like clockwork, and always with an appetite."

I must have looked surprised, for she explained: "At least half of what I send up is always eaten, and I doubt that it's because Mr. Holmes has developed a sudden appreciation for my cooking."

"Oh," I acknowledged.

"But you're up a bit early today," she continued, "so you see that I don't have things ready. Not trouble sleeping, I hope?"

"Oh, no," I began to protest, "not at all -" but then wondered if it would not be better to make a clean breast of things. "Although," I added quickly, "I find that the weather has warmed sufficiently that I no longer require the use of your very fine comforter."

Mrs. Hudson frowned. It was a blatant lie, of course, as we were both aware that the temperature had only continued to plummet, leaving the weather miserably cold. Nonetheless, she appeared to understand. "I'll come up and collect it then, if you'd rather."

"Thank you," I replied sincerely.

She had removed rashers, eggs and toast into serving dishes while we had been speaking, and now arranged these on a tray. "You may carry these up, Doctor," she said, indicating our pair of plates and flatware wrapped in napkins.

"Certainly," I said, relieved to have the comforter off my hands at last, and glad to oblige.

"Mr. Holmes hasn't been sleeping either, you know," Mrs. Hudson remarked as I followed her up the stairs. "I hear him pacing, nights. And the temper of him! The late evenings have hardly improved it."

"I'll speak to him," I offered grimly.

"It's alright," she dismissed. "But I do worry for him, with the hours he keeps."

"I think he has a case," I attempted to explain, but she shook her head.

"Only since yesterday. From what I can tell, he's barely slept a wink all week."

Having reached the landing, I balanced the plates in one hand to open the door for her, her hands being full with the tray, and our gossip about Holmes ceased as we entered the sitting room and, as we assumed, his hearing. However we were both surprised to find that our conversation may well have been beyond his ken.

Comically, he was precisely where I had left him on the sofa, save that at some point he appeared to have pulled the discarded eiderdown around himself, and fallen very deeply asleep.

Mrs. Hudson and I both stood and stared for some moments. It was such a rare occasion that either of us saw him quiet or still, except in those instances when he'd come across an intellectual conundrum murky enough to induce a contemplative mood. He was now curled at the foot of the sofa, burrowed into the comforter so that only the top half of his face and his sleep-mussed dark hair protruded, manifestly quite unconscious.

"Do you think he hasn't been sleeping because of the cold?" Mrs. Hudson whispered to me after a moment.

I shrugged in reply. Now that I thought about it, it was true that in spite of my being acclimatized to warmer temperatures, Holmes did not generally cope with cold as well as I did.

"He has no meat on those bones," my landlady continued disapprovingly, shaking her head. "I shouldn't wonder if he's been spending his nights up shivering."

"It looks as though he's finally warm enough," was all I could think to comment.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, then turned to me conspiratorially. "I think we should let him keep the comforter."

I could hardly find cause to object.

The old eiderdown, which was such a torment to me, is to this day as dear to Holmes as his dressing gown.


	21. Lunch

"I think it's about lunch time," Holmes announced firmly.

"I thought you weren't hungry," I replied, taking a seat on a strategically chosen bench. "You didn't think you would be eating until tomorrow, if I recall. What a charming view!"

"It's Regent's Park, Watson," sighed Holmes. "It hasn't changed since we spent an hour here yesterday."

I shook my head. "My dear fellow, you see, but you do not observe. Look at the leaves budding on the trees."

"I find no interest in budding leaves," Holmes insisted, and pointedly did not sit down beside me. "I thought you were hungry."

"I was, but since you're not in a mood to eat, I could sit here and enjoy the park...well, all day, really."

"I know," Holmes scowled, sounding worried. "These spring afternoons have induced in you a terrible habit of lying about in the sunshine, soliloquizing on the beauty of nature. If it's that or lunch, I choose lunch."

"Oh, don't put yourself out on my account," I replied, with calculated good humor. "I am perfectly content here. Really. Look at the geese on the serpentine!"

"I don't give a damn about geese," snapped Holmes. "If you aim to spend another afternoon observing geese I shall go mad."

"Never in this soothing atmosphere!" I declared, gesturing theatrically to the lawns and stands of trees around us.

"Does Marcini's sound good?" Holmes pressed. "I think Marcini's. You're fond of their bolognese."

"Don't tell me you're hungry after all," I taunted.

"Famished," he mocked, waving a hand. "Fading away as we speak. Now, please, let's go have lunch before you get too comfortable on that bench."

_AN: Chalk up another point for Watson. _


	22. Marriage

"It's the violin playing, isn't it. Just say so, if it is."

"What are you talking about?" I replied, resuming my seat in my armchair while Holmes stretched himself out across the sofa and reached for a cigarette.

"Whatever's motivating your efforts towards marrying me off to anything discernably female that walks through that door," he accused, tossing his head towards the threshold over which our client had just departed.

"Oh, Holmes," I grumbled, opening the newspaper I'd abandoned earlier with a snap.

"Well?"

"I'm not trying to marry you off."

"What is it, then?"

"I want you to be _happy_," I enunciated, loudly and carefully.

"Happy!" he exclaimed. "Then you ought to interest yourself in the quality of the case, rather than the spirituality of the client's eyes, or the shade of her hair -"

"I want you to _remain_ happy," I elaborated tersely, "not spend a few weeks in a fit of activity, however stimulating you find it, only to descend into melancholly."

"And you think some woman is the key to accomplishing this?" He wondered, appearing rather nonplussed at the idea.

"The _right_ woman, quite probably, yes," I sniffed.

He looked at me seriously. "Watson, please stop this."

"I'm only concerned for your well-being," I insisted.

"I'm sure."

"And I want to be an uncle one day," I added, with a hint of mischief.

Holmes snarled in disgust, reached behind his head, and hurled a pillow at me.


	23. AU

Three days after the Hargreaves case was closed, Lestrade found her way to a tiny ground floor flat in Camberwell.

The green paint on the door was peeling. The brass numbers forming the address were tarnished and corroded. Feeling instinctively that she wouldn't like to be lingering on this street after the waning sun had set, she raised a fist and knocked. A moment passed, and the slim hopes she'd entertained that the door would be answered diminished a bit more. The bent blinds in the window showed that the interior of the flat was dark. She was on the verge of turning on her heel when finally she heard the deadbolt click, and the door opened.

It was immensely gratifying to see the man who answered. She had played a hunch in tracking him down, and was pleased to find that her instincts had lead her truly.

And to see that he was still alive.

He stood in the doorway, thin and hollow-eyed but manifestly breathing, and peered around uncertainly. He glanced up and down the street, as though expecting to see that she had not come alone. Finally, his steel-grey gaze fixed on her.

"What are you doing here?"

For all that this was hardly a greeting, she'd read enough to understand such brusqueness to be characteristic of him, and to see it in the flesh was something of a thrill. She hefted the white take away bags she held with a grin.

"I've brought you tacos and beer." So saying, she strode past him and into the flat.

Sherlock Holmes vacillated where he stood for a moment, perplexity warring with annoyance for dominance on his angular, refined features before he slammed the door uncaringly and followed her. "You've brought me beer and _what_?"

"Tacos. Cold beef and beer isn't done anymore. This is better." She looked around in vain for a place to set the bags, and was disconcerted to find that every surface in the flat – minimal though the furnishings were – was covered in sheets of scratch paper. In fact the whole aspect of the place, lit only by the glow from the screen of the lap top in the center of the floor, and a desk lamp plugged into the wall in a corner, was worrisome. Frowning, Lestrade reached for one of the pages scattered over the inundated kitchen table, only to have Holmes snatch it from her before she could comprehend what was written on it.

"That looks like maths," she remarked.

"Combinatorics," shrugged Holmes evasively, "the kitchen is that way."

She could see where the kitchen was. The kitchen was nothing but some cupboards and a sink tucked against one wall of the spartan room. But, she humored him, and without another glance at the papers, crossed to unpack the food onto the counter. There was nothing on this but a battered french press, filled with cloudy, stagnant coffee gone cold.

Holmes, meanwhile, seemed to have become somewhat self-conscious of the state of himself, if not of his flat. He smoothed a hand over mussed dark hair and then the front of his rust-coloured t-shirt before slipping slender hands into the pockets of his black jeans, the corners of his mouth tighening in a discomfited expression. Lestrade took the opportunity to observe him from the corner of her eye. Where she once would have called him lean or thin, "kenness bordering on starvation," now appeared a more apt descriptor of his condition. He'd grown bonier, and more pale – white as a sheet of paper himself. She considered the pace he must have been working at to produce the kind of snow-storm of papers that carpeted the flat.

"What'd Townshend want a slice of your brain for, again?" she wondered innocently.

Holmes sighed, self-consciousness sublimating into irritation, and scowled at her.

"Alright," she responded with a shrug of her own, "I'll be direct. It's Moriarty's prime factorization algorithm you're working on, isn't it? If you can give it to Townshend on paper, they won't be so interested in cutting it out of your head. Do you have a bottle opener?"

"No," snapped Holmes. Lestrade shrugged a bit, and, casting about herself for a moment, came up with the coffee-stained spoon lying beside the french press. She popped the tops from two bottles, offering one to Holmes.

"Why is your flat covered in combinatorics? Not that you seem to be filling the space with much else. But I thought you knew Moriarty's algorithm."

Holmes regarded the bottle without replying for a moment. Finally, movements slow and heavy, he reached to accept it. "His work wasn't finished."

"Ah," said lestrade. They drank in silence for a moment, Holmes at a rate which almost alarmed her, until at last he crossed to place his nearly empty bottle on the counter, passing the back one hand over his mouth. It seemed, she noted with concern, that rather than soothing or subduing, the effect of the alcohol and the confession on him had been to open a floodgate. He looked shaken. In fact, his hands were shaking.

"You can't work at the pitch you've been without rest," Lestrade scolded gently, nodding towards one trembling limb. Holmes curled the hand into a fist and pressed it against the counter top to still it, scoffing.

"I'm afraid I have few alternatives, Inspector. Remaining a fugitive holds little appeal. I must either destroy an institution of the British government, or demonstrate that I am worth more to them alive. Actually - I consider myself fortunate that I can in good conscience strive for the latter. The last time I was faced with toppling an organization of similar reach and power -" he shook his head, taking a final pull from the bottle beside him, emptying it in a swallow. "Well. I have no wish to be doing this for another three years."

Lestrade considered this. "You're trying to finish his work, and show that it can be beaten."

"I must," Holmes shrugged helplessly. "There'll be no outrunning these people. The world has gotten too small."

Lestrade took a thoughtful sip of her own, half-finished beer. Of course, she thought, Holmes was worn out, and his hands were shaking. He had taken on what sounded to her like an impossible task, and was working under enourmous pressure. She fought the sudden urge to crush him into a hug, half-surprised by her own impulse to protect him. Instead, she asked:

"Do you really not know what tacos are?"

He simply looked at her, grey eyes inscrutable.

She shook her head and began unpacking the takeaway bags.

_Do you not know what's going on? Of course you don't. You didn't know that the author once spent some time writing an ambitiously long and complex Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century AU. Look down - that's your keyboard. Back to the screen - the AU is now a brief excerpt! The author is not on a horse._


End file.
